


the one where Gary does physio at the camp with Andy

by sarahenany



Category: The World's End (2013)
Genre: Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Gen, M/M, Other, Schmoop
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-09-17
Updated: 2014-09-17
Packaged: 2018-02-17 18:45:04
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,828
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2319584
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sarahenany/pseuds/sarahenany
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>What it says. Makes more sense if you've read the rest of my stories in this 'verse.</p>
            </blockquote>





	the one where Gary does physio at the camp with Andy

**Author's Note:**

> 1\. Shameless schmoop. SHamELESS.  
> 2\. I've been told it seems a bit OOC. JSYK.  
> 3\. For Oksana, always.

Depression is a large part of recovering from any major injury. Andrew Knightley knows this better than anyone. Back when he was in hospital, recovering from the car crash that night and wondering why Gary King never came to visit him, his parents and relatives had to constantly coax him from the fits of depression that threatened to swamp him, bury him alive.

Gary has nobody.

Andy often finds him sitting on a rock, staring into space. His eyes have bags under them. Andy knows he hasn't been sleeping. In his fevered hallucinations, he calls out to the Blanks who have died. Often, his staring eyes start to drop tears, quietly and without fuss. He'll sit there, weeping silently, for hours, his facial expression not even changing.

He does his physical therapy doggedly, grunting and gasping with pain. The doctor has told Andy that he fears for Gary sometimes, pushing himself as though he doesn't care for his own health. As though he's welcoming the pain.

As though the therapy is a punishment for something.

Andy begs off a meeting one afternoon to catch Gary at the tail-end of his session. He comes up from behind, at an angle where Gary can't see him, and watches.

Gary's doing leg-lifts, using a boulder for support. He bends his bad leg, pushes his body back against the rock, repeats. Every time his leg bends past a certain angle, he lets out a hoarse, ragged shout. The veins on his neck are standing out, and he's grimacing and groaning—his face would be flushed if he had any circulation left. As it is, he's pale, the only flush standing out in ruddy stains on his cheekbones, and the slashes on his face a livid purple-red. The rest of his face is stark white, tinged with green. The pain must be making him feel sick.

Gary bends his leg, repeats the same clearly agonizing movement with the same pained cry. His eyes have the same intent, manic energy he had when he smashed his head against a column hard enough to draw blood. No, Andy mentally corrects, not manic – desperate. Bitter. Hopelessly unhappy.

Andy supposes he should feel vindicated. He should feel some sort of satisfaction that Gary's paying for everything he's done. Can remember a time when he'd have wanted to see this, even. But now…

Now, he just wants to grab the stupid sod and shake him. They don't have enough problems without him torturing himself?

It's not fair. Sitting there like that, repeating movements that make him cry out with pain, over and over and over, Gary looks so alone. So fucking alone. He wouldn't have been alone if he hadn't fucking run out on his friends. What the fuck did he have to go and do that for, anyway? God, Gary King is the stupidest man alive.

Andy stands there for a long moment.

Gary stops, slumping in exhaustion. He leans back against the rock, and sobs, harsh, grating heaves of sound that seem torn out of him, seem to rip out a bit of his throat with every broken cry. Tears slip down his hollowed, sunken cheeks to disappear into his stubbly beard. He clenches bony fists and grits his teeth against his misery as he sobs and sobs.

"Come here, you stupid bastard," Andy says gently, and wraps an arm around him, much as he did that day at the end of the world.

"Fuck!" Gary starts violently – he was crying so hard he didn't even see Andy coming. Hell, Andy himself didn't know he was going to Gary; he seems to have just – gravitated. "I…" It's not even a word, just a sound. His bony shoulders shudder underneath Andy's arm, and he half-heartedly tries to squirm away. "Don't…" His breath catches and he gasps out a great, ugly sob. He tries to choke it back and ends up coughing, then trying to suppress the cough as it clearly hurts too much.

Something twists in Andy's chest. "Gary," he says, trying to sound stern and failing. "Fucking take it easy, you'll do yourself an injury." He adjusts his hold so Gary's head is leaning back in the crook of his arm, then flattens a palm over the scar on his collarbone so he won't rupture it again. "Breathe. Go on." He feels the jerk of Gary's body under his hand as he fights to get his weeping under control. "Shh, just breathe slowly," Andy instructs. He knows his voice is too gentle to be authoritative, but he can't bring himself to shout. "Deep breath. Come on."

After a second, Andy feels the gentle push of Gary's chest expanding against his palm. "Good," he says, feeling funny as he says it. "And another." Gary obliges, then breaks down into quieter, shuddery weeping. Andy folds him completely into his arms, and Gary relaxes into him, putting his head on Andy's shoulder. "Good lad," Andy says softly.

Gary shakes his head, a feeble motion against Andy's shoulder. "I'm sorry," he mutters unhappily, and it breaks Andy's heart. Gary's made mistakes, nobody knows that better than Andy, but he can't spend the rest of his life with regret. That's no way to live.

"Right," says Andy sharply. Careful not to break contact with Gary, he shuffles around so he's between Gary and the boulder he was leaning back against. It's got sharp edges, he realizes with some dismay – Gary seems to have deliberately chosen the one that would hurt his back the most. He shifts right and left till he's as comfortable as he can get, then pulls a stunned, compliant Gary King back to rest against his stomach. "There. How many more reps did you have due?"

Gary's stiff against him. "Ah…" Andy just holds him by the shoulders and waits. "I… Three?" It comes out rather uncertain.

"Okay. Get started."

It's already smoother: Gary's forced to move less violently so as not to dig an elbow into Andy's chest or stomach by accident. Andy holds him by the upper arms, feeling it as his body starts to tremble with the strain and exertion of lifting his injured leg. Pushing himself too hard, dammit. Andy says firmly, "Stop."

And fuck it all if Gary doesn't freeze with his leg in mid-air, his shaking turning to full-out spastic jerking and shuddering with the effort of keeping the injured joint lifted. He's trying so hard to obey Andy that he's gritting his teeth with the effort not to let go; a tortured whine is forming in the back of his throat, but he's squeezing his throat shut against it for fear of letting Andy hear it.

"For fuck's sake, Gary!" Andy shouts. "Put your fucking leg down, now!"

Gary lets go. Of _fucking_ course his leg slams down onto the stony ground, and of course Gary's pain forces out a ragged scream. His head rolls from side to side on Andy's chest – Andy can feel Gary's exhausted sobbing reverberating through his own body. And Jesus Christ, Gary is _still_ fucking apologizing. "I'm sorry," he sobs. "Sorry." He can barely draw breath, but he's apologizing still. For what, Andy can only guess.

"Gary. Gary." He has to repeat it several times. Andy notices that his arms have come up to wrap round Gary completely, and he's rocking him a little. It feels right, so he keeps up the gentle motion back and forth. But Gary's not relaxed like before: his arms are spastic, hands claw-fisted, drawn up into his chest like a dead bird's feet. Andy wraps his hands gently round Gary's cold, rigid fists, rubbing the scarred knuckles, forcing his thumbs into the hollow formed by the clenched fingers. Gary draws in a shuddering breath and sobs harder, shaking his head. "It's all right, Gary," Andy says firmly. "There's nothing to be sorry for. It's all forgiven, it's all right."

Gary just gulps down another sob, shrinks into himself a little more. "Sorry. Din't mean to… Didn't mean to."

The conversation is risking getting too personal too quickly. Andy makes a try for casual. "Look, a little effort's all right, that's normal, but it's not all right to hurt yourself."

"Physio's…" Gary mutters almost unintelligibly, "supposed to hurt."

"It can hurt, sometimes, yes," Andy concedes. "But the physiotherapist himself said you're not listening to your body's pain signals, and you've started doing damage. Pushing yourself too hard."

"Who cares?"

"I do!"

"N—" Andy can barely hear anything through Gary's hitching breaths. He's trying to push away from Andy's embrace, but his muscles are so weakened from his long illness that he doesn't have the strength. "No, don't…" He chokes on a sob. "Just—just…" He shakes his head and pushes feebly away again. "Andy, forget it—just not fucking worth—"

Something in Andy explodes. " _I'll_ decide what's fucking worth it, thank you very much!" It comes out a bellow, and Gary starts in his arms. Andy pulls slightly away so he can see Gary's face, but Gary won't meet his eyes. "Look at me." He almost wants to shake Gary, but the man's already shaking with pain and debility, and Andy can't bring himself to be anything but gentle for fear of aggravating his injuries. He settles for sounding authoritative. "Look at me," he repeats.

Gary finally lifts his eyes to Andy's, and Andy doesn't know what scares him most, the hollowness in Gary's eyes or the way he cringes slightly, like a dog afraid to be kicked. "How dare you," Andy says more gently. "How dare you decide for me what's worth it and what isn't?"

Gary drops his eyes. "I…"

"I said," Andy's voice is firm, but gentle, _"look at me."_

When Gary's looking away—Andy realizes—he can pretend his mask is still there, can pretend he's still Gary King even when his naked soul is stripped and bleeding. His voice is still defiant, anyway. "For fuck's sake, Andy—"

Andy feels himself being swept by a wave of emotion—maybe frustration. Maybe something else. "No. Look at me first."

Slowly, Gary drags his gaze up to meet Andy's. There's still far, far too much in Gary's eyes of the man who has nothing left, and it hits Andy that he has maybe 1.2 seconds to change that. "You're important to me, you stupid fuck," Andy says, mentally cursing himself for the reflex of swearing at Gary that's like a conditioned response. Pavlov, meet Gary King. Gary's still looking at him with that fragile, open gaze, though, so Andy hopes he's bought himself a few more seconds. "I don't want to see you hurt," he keeps going, doggedly, not weighing his words anymore, just letting fuckever blurt out of his mouth. "I wouldn't ever tell you to do something that hurts you, so you can just get that out of your head right now. I won't tell you to do anything that hurts. It feels like fucking shite when I see you in pain like this, punishing yourself for things that were over and done with before you even saved the world—"

"I didn't—"

"Shut up. Yes, you did. Don't interrupt." Gary does shut up, which Andy figures is a good sign. "Yeah, you did a lot of shit, but that was in another life. I've forgiven you. I _have._ It's… It doesn't matter anymore, it's over and done with. This is here and this is now and you're…" _Oh bollocks, just say it._ "You and my family are the people who mean most to me in the world. You're all I've got left. And I'm not losing any one of you. Not losing you, Gary, do you fucking get that? Especially not now, not now I've found you again. If I lost you again, I'd…" He swallows. "How do you think I was when you were gone, eh? Happy, was I?" He doesn't wait for an answer. "I was fucking lost. It was like a piece of my fucking heart was cut out."

"I'm—"

"Don't you dare say you're sorry. Don’t you fucking dare. I don't want to hear it."

The breath sighs out of Gary, and he slumps in defeat. "All right."

"No! Dammit! Fuck, I don't mean that. I mean…"

"I know what you mean. I—"

"Shut up!" Andy snaps. "Gary, could you for once in your life shut your mouth and open your ears? I don't mean I can't forgive you, all right? I mean I want you to get past this."

"That's why I'm—" Gary indicates his leg.

"No. Fuck that, you think I'm talking about that? I'm talking about this. This, this guilt. You're not bloody guilty any more. I don't want you to apologize any more. I know I wanted that, once upon a time, but that was in another life. Now I just want you here with me."

Gary looks down, shakes his head. "Not going anywhere. Just…"

"Just what? Spit it out, go on."

"You said…"

Andy cannot get how Gary has this invincible persona in front of everybody, then becomes this stammering little boy who can't even get his words out sometimes. He gives him a gentle shake. "Yes? Do tell."

"Fighting." His voice is almost unintelligible. "You said, worth fighting for. Got to fight."

Andy stares. "You… you're actually fucking torturing yourself like this because—tell me you're not torturing yourself for some idea that I want you to."

"Fighting," Gary says, and he clenches his fists again. "Got to… get better."

Andy takes a long moment to think. Gary's words – so unlike when he used to be bursting with manic energy – seem to have dried up again. "Gary," he says slowly. "Are you… is this some sort of… of penance?"

"Don't make it sound so exalted." It sounds like a flash of Gary's old spirit, but he's looking down, still. "Just want to be… fucking good enough, don't I."

And then, _then_ it hits Andy. "It's not enough…" He has to pause to think between each phrase. That, and to avoid strangling the clueless git. "It's not enough for you that you've sworn off drinking. That you've become the Caped Crusader. That you've stayed. Do you think… is it that you actually think I'll think less of you if you can't—if your leg…" He can't find a way to say it. Can't really believe Gary'd think that of him. "If you walk with a bloody _limp?!"_

"I… Just wanted…" Gary's hand is shaking a bit, his voice unsteady. "To… try hard enough. You said… I never got better. And now—" He swallows, and Andy can tell that he _is_ crying, now. "I'm never going to get better."

Gary pushes a hand through his hair, and Andy can see the raised, purple scars still bisecting his wrists. Something in Andy's stomach clenches as he's suddenly struck by an image of Gary alone – in a bathroom? – sliding a blade across his skin, cutting deep, watching himself bleed out. Alone. "Gary…" Andy whispers, appalled.

Gary shrinks into himself, shaking his head, muttering, spiraling down, down. "Too fucking late. Should have fucking died—"

"Gary!" Andy grabs him, and this time he does shake him, hard. "Fuck! You stupid bastard, in what universe do you think you'd be better off dead?"

But Gary's lost in his own misery, lips clamped together, eyes squeezed shut, shaking his head, small lost motions. "GARY!" Andy roars. "Don't fucking leave me!"

And waits.

The tremors still run through Gary, but he clenches his fists, swallows convulsively, and stops shaking his head. Then he lifts his chin, looking like he's facing a firing squad. The tears are still running down his cheeks, but he says, "Yeah?"

"You think you have to… measure up?" Andy genuinely wants to know, although he has a sinking feeling he already knows the answer. "You think there's some kind of, of criteria for… for being good enough?"

"Hell, no, that's easy." Gary cuts his eyes away again. "Never be good enough."

"That's where you're wrong," Andy says firmly. "There's one thing you've got to do to be good enough."

"Yeah, stay," Gary mutters, "dunno what bloody good _that_ is, won't ever walk again without a crutch and—" He bites his tongue.

"God," Andy huffs. "And _what?_ Go on, enlighten me."

"Never mind—" Gary tries to struggle up out of Andy's hold. Andy grips his wrists, almost immediately loosening his hold when he feels Gary's arms trembling under his. The silly idiot's exhausted himself so much that he can barely move.

"Gary." Andy keeps his loose hold on Gary's forearms, careful to keep his hands well away from the lumpy scar tissue. "Not letting you go till you spit out whatever's going through that silly head of yours."

Gary ducks his head. Andy can see the tears dropping silently into his lap. He slides his hands up Gary's arms so he's cupping his elbows, less restraint than support. "Go on, then."

Gary just shakes his head. Andy tightens his grip, gives another gentle shake. Gary shrinks into himself more. "I…" But he's choked with sobs, and can't go on.

Fuck. What could be that bad? Andy pulls Gary in again, tight against his upper body, locking his right hand round his own left wrist in a solid hold. He's trying hard to pretend it's a restraint, not an embrace. "I'll just keep you here till you tell me."

"Can't. You'll have to go back to the camp sometime."

Andy's encouraged that Gary's making any kind of response. "Try me."

Gary inhales and exhales, his expanding lungs pushing against Andy's body. "Not going to get better," he mutters. "And then you'll…" He swallows.

"Go on. I'll what?"

"You'll know I… didn't fight. Hard enough." Gary swallows, shrinking as if he expects Andy to push him away now. "I'll be a fucking cripple. Because I—didn't… fight hard enough then—and not—trying hard enough. Now." His voice becomes reedy, cracks. "And you'll…" He gulps hard. "You'll..."

"I'll what?" Andy unlocks his hands from each other, rubs his palm in a tentative, slow sweep down Gary's back. "Tell me."

Gary mutters something.

"It's all right." Andy strokes up and down Gary's spine again, distressed to feel the thin back shuddering with renewed weeping. "Go on."

Gary shakes his head, then breathes deep, resigned, like it's a foregone conclusion. "Stop. Forgiving me."

"I—" For a split-second, Andy thinks it's a command—then he realizes it isn't. "What?"

And just like that, the floodgates open. Where Gary couldn't speak, now it seems he can't shut up. "Always knew it was too much," Andy can just make out, between Gary's sobs. "To ask for. Not after—after everything…" He lets out a keening moan, betraying a depth of suffering that chills Andy's blood even after all that's happened between them, and shakes his head again. "Knew you'd – one day – can't expect you to… Not you. You're a fighter, you're strong, you, why the fuck would you even want—I've tried and tried but I just fucking can't, I won't be able to—"

"Gary…"

"Just a matter of time. And I can't, you deserve better and I should be strong enough to just go but I just keep bloody staying and one day you'll—"

"Gary. _Gary!"_ Andy shouts to be heard over the babbling. The pain and exhaustion must have affected Gary more than he'd thought. "I'll WHAT? It's just a matter of time till I _what?!"_

The answer is almost unintelligible, bursting out on a sob. "Send me away."

Andy stares. He feels his arms pulling Gary in closer, finds his own hand coming up to cup the back of Gary's head, smoothing his matted hair, and feels himself turning Gary sideways and letting him sob into his cardigan, his face buried into the fabric somewhere between Andy's chest and belly. "It's all over, it's all right, hush," Andy's mouth repeats without his brain intervening, over and over and over again, his hands rubbing Gary's shoulders and stroking Gary's hair, even as Andy stares blankly at the rock-face in front of him. It used to be a building, at one time, now it's a pile of rubble. Moss has started growing on the shady side.

Andy's body seems to know what to do without his brain getting in the way, so he lets it. His eyes keep staring at the rock face. What his arms have done now is gather Gary into him completely, his upper body rocking them both back and forth in what must be a soothing motion: the violence of Gary's sobs seems to be abating. He tries his mouth, since his apparatuses are all working independently of his brain. It says "Shh-shh," and "I'm here," and "it's all right," and even "love you," but then his brain reasserts itself, because Gary has said something that isn't permissible, something Andy cannot just let go.

"Gary," he says – gently, because his voice box is not letting him sound like anything but Janet when she's soothing Tina to sleep. "Gary. This is important. I'm never going to… I will never, ever—how could you even get such a stupid idea I can't imagine—Send you away, what bollocks, how could you—" His body decides his brain is making a cock-up of things, and makes his mouth shut up again. Andy strokes Gary's hair, cups his head in his hand, takes comfort in the warm weight of the tousled head fitted snugly under his chin, and searches for words.

"You idiot," he begins. Not a good start. "Look…" Deep breath. Gary's still letting himself be held and rocked, though, so Andy supposes all is not lost. "That one thing I wanted you to do? New rules."

He feels Gary stiffen in his hold, and he tightens his embrace. "No, listen. _Listen._ You didn't listen before. I said there was only one thing you've got to do to be good enough." Gary is tense in Andy's arms, and Andy feels the burden Gary's carrying. He hasn't tried hard enough to lift it. But by God, he's going to now. "Keep breathing."

Gary obediently takes a deep breath, and another. "No, no," says Andy. "I meant, that's the only thing you'll ever have to do to be good enough. Just keep breathing."

It's ironic, Andy supposes, that Gary actually _stops_ breathing for a shocked second. He doesn't say "What?" – he seems too intimidated, too afraid. Andy's only ever seen Gary afraid around him. The knowledge that he's the only one with the power to make Gary King genuinely frightened should stroke Andy's ego, but now it just makes his heart ache.

"I said," Andy repeats, placing his fingertips lightly on the soft spot in the center of Gary's collarbones, feeling the soft push of his friend's heartbeat against his hand, "just keep breathing, and don't leave me. That's all I want. That's all I ever wanted."

Gary shakes his head. Well, after all these years, Andy supposes a bit of doubt is to be expected. He keeps rocking Gary, holding his head with one hand and clasping his shoulder tight with the other, pressing his friend's bony body into his own soft belly. "When I said," Andy says, after he's given up waiting for Gary to do anything but shake his head, "when I said I wanted you to get better, I didn't mean I wanted you to compete in the bloody Olympics. I just wanted to see you healthy."

Gary shakes his head, helpless. "Never going to be that."

"Yeah, you are." Andy fumbles for words. "You already are. You don't ditch your friends for a pint, not any more, you don't choose a needle over me anymore. That's all I wanted, Gary. All I ever wanted."

For a long time, they just sit there. Gary breathes in, out, in, out. Andy keeps holding him and rocking him. After a while, he feels the wire-strung tension slowly relax out of Gary's muscles. "Don't care about you having two good legs, idiot," Andy murmurs, not bothering to hide the affection in his tone. "You could be in a wheelchair and I'd push you around. Fucking carry you. As long as it was _you_ you, you know? Our Gary. Sober. Like you've always been, like you always _were_ before things—went too far." Gary takes a breath to say something, probably something stupid, so Andy continues. "You've always been a manic crazy sod. Just didn't – it gets old dealing with a manic drunken high crazy sod. But I love you the way you are. Don't change. Don't have to do a damn thing." Andy lets his arms tighten around Gary. "And no hurting yourself. No punishing yourself. You've got nothing to – to fucking atone for, you understand?"

Gary tenses again. "I—"

_"Nothing."_ Andy gives Gary a little shake. "And it begins with this: The minute it starts to hurt, you stop, understand?"

"Physiotherapy's supposed to—"

"If you say hurt, I'll clock you one," Andy cuts him off. "Yeah, it hurts but you're doing yourself an injury. Making it worse. Just to do penance for whatever stupid ideas are going through your empty head."

"Head's not empty," Gary mutters. Andy fancies he hears the ghost of a smile.

"You get me?"

"All right," Gary mutters. Andy doesn't know whether he sees a veil of pain over Gary's words or what exactly, but there's something, a tinge of uncertainty perhaps. A pall.

"And just to make sure you don't hurt yourself, you're forbidden from doing physiotherapy unless I'm here."

Andy senses that strange pull in Gary again: where he's secretly glad at being bossed around, but has to show rebellion for form's sake. Gary doesn't say anything for a while, just shakes his head. "No, no," he finally mutters. "It's all right."

Andy thinks perhaps the best thing to do is go on as though Gary hadn't spoken. "I know you're supposed to do them in the afternoon, when you've warmed up a bit, so we can set aside an hour after—"

"Andy, no." Gary tries to lift his head up off Andy's chest. "Fuck, I can't impose—"

Andy doesn't shove Gary's head down—the man's too badly injured for that, still—but he does sort of flatten his hand against Gary's temple and hold him a bit tighter to keep him where he is, head tucked under Andy's chin. "You're not an imposition," he says firmly. "You're my best mate."

Gary blinks. Andy feels something in him calm, as though he's letting out a breath he's been holding for too long. Then he stiffens again, refusing, as usual, to believe that he means anything to anyone. "No! You've a family—"

"Yes, and you're part of it."

Gary, thank goodness, is finally speechless. Andy takes advantage of the fact to rock him a little more. "You can't ride off into the sunset, arsehole. Should have told you that years ago. Should have fucking grabbed you out of the hospital and had it out with you, saved us both a lot of grief." His brain, on holiday at the seaside, watches as his hand seeks Gary's, as his fingers gently, lovingly trace the lumpy scar on his friend's wrist. "Just rein in that – that stupid self-destructive urge a little, all right? You mean so…" He pauses, his mouth disconnecting from his brain again. "I love you, you stupid berk. Just let me… let me help you with this, all right? Just shelve the bloody whatever for an hour a day, and let me… let me fucking take care of you." He feels Gary wavering, and his voice softens again – clearly, his brain has decided to sit this one out and see what develops. "You've done so much, don't do this to yourself. Let me take care of you. Please."

"It's just…" Gary wants to give in, Andy can feel it. "You don't have to."

"No," Andy agrees easily. "I don't." He runs a hand over Gary's hair. "It's not a duty. It's something I do because I enjoy it. I enjoy being there to make sure you don't hurt yourself. I enjoy spending time with my best friend."

Gary sighs, long and shuddery.

"So here's what's going to happen." Andy's good at sounding authoritative. "You are going to have breakfast with me so I make sure you eat right. Then we're going to meet here every day an hour before dinner, come rain or shine, and do your exercises. What is not going to happen is you running yourself into the ground or not getting enough rest or doing your therapy without me or the doctor there. Is that clear?"

Gary gives a mock moan into Andy's cardigan. "Ooh, I love it when you get all masterful."

Andy doesn't dignify that with an answer, but he grins as he helps Gary up, to begin the slow trek towards the camp for dinner.


End file.
